


semantics

by baehj2915



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: 400 Years Later, Afterlife, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death, Post-Canon, Power of Words, Storytelling, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-07 03:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14662575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baehj2915/pseuds/baehj2915
Summary: Adventurers can outlive the adventure. Stories always outlive the storyteller.





	1. 451

**Author's Note:**

> hello my name is jables and i'm not fucking done with vox machina yet. 
> 
> i've got a few more of these in the vault, about the life and times of scanlan shorthalt, jumping back and forth between different years. this will be a multi chapter work, but it goes along with this other fic i wrote: [remain, remains, remaining](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12859362). i may eventually group them in a series together, but you can totally get by without reading the other. 
> 
> this will contain canon elements that happened until episode 115, and then also pretty much every death of every vm member except keyleth, bc you know, the passage of time. so spoilers. it's gonna be rough. 
> 
> otherwise this is a lot of just character exploration about post-canon stuff bc scan man is my favorite guy and I AM NOT DONE WITH VOX MACHINA YET. 
> 
> join me won't you. 
> 
>  
> 
> ~*~

“Give us your coin, old man, and you won’t get hurt!” 

Scanlan turned around, not particularly quickly by nature these days, but he wouldn’t have been quick about it even if he could. He pulled his walking stick closer to his feet, planting it firmly on the pitted stonework, holding it tightly. 

His hearing was still quite good--better than his eyesight-- so these two young thieves now upon him in the darkened alley were at least somewhat competent. The tall one was only comparatively tall, hooded and thin, probably a human or half-elf boy not very far into adulthood. He had pretty shoddy looking shortsword clenched tight by his side. The smaller hooded figure off the side was almost fully in shadow. Scanlan could only see a hunched shoulder, the hooded head, and a sliver of light across the eyes. That one was halfling or gnome sized and not the one that had spoke. 

“This is probably a mistake, lads,” Scanlan said, adjusting his glasses and trying to get a better look at their faces. “Creating corpses of old paupers in back alleyways? Thieves guilds and city watches both tend to frown on that sort of thing. High risk for more than just yourself and little reward.” 

The tall one shot a look to his companion and scoffed back at Scanlan, confusion and probably hunger, angering him. He stepped closer, knuckles white around the handle of his blade. “What, you? You’re no pauper? I know a rich old geezer when I see one.” 

“Oh? Well, I did say _old_ pauper and semantics can be tricky. But I can say with all honesty I’m not rich, nicely adorned though I am. I must look an easy target. A defenseless little old man in fine clothes stumbling in a dark alley. Your lucky day, eh?” 

When neither spoke, only glancing between each other, with nerves radiating off them, Scanlan laughed a little. 

“And did either of you ever think to wonder exactly _why_ a defenseless little old man in fine clothes would be stumbling around in a dark alley?” 

He let the two share another look. 

“Looking for prossies?” The one in shadow said. 

Scanlan did laugh at that, genuinely. He hadn’t been expecting that. He cleared his throat and got a better hold on his walking stick. “Well, that’s a good answer. Probably the first time tonight you’ve had a good thought between you, but it’s not the case. My whoring days ended a long time ago. So I’ll give you another one. Why else would a defenseless little old man be wandering in dark alleys alone at night?” 

Like they were struggling to understand a bad joke, the two thieves started to exude their discomfort and confusion, even wordlessly. But like most people when Scanlan gave them a script, they at least tried to comply with it. The tall one shrugged at him, sidearm a little looser in his grip now. 

Scanlan tutted. “The answer to the riddle is: _he wouldn’t be_. Obviously. What kind of senselessness would that be? A body is likely to be robbed or worse in a place like this.”

The confusion from the would-be thieves heightened as they again looked to each other and back at Scanlan. The tall one pointed at him with his sword point, but clearly not in an attacking stance. “But what-- what are--?” 

Scanlan decided to get to the point. He tapped his walking stick on the ground, activating it. The top of the staff started to glow an unearthly white-blue. And for good measure, he bounced red crackling light around the fingers of his other hand. “Fortunately, I don’t see any defenseless little old men around here, do you?” 

As predicted, the thieves turned and bolted. Scanlan sighed to himself when they were far past. He would have to have a word with the Magistrate. Neither policing nor prisons did as much as free bread to keep kids from becoming a menace. This city was larger now than it once was, but it didn’t mean Scanlan was overly fond of it becoming overridden with the problems of large cities. 

Out of the corner of his eye he could see an area behind him started to softly glow--which was the real purpose of his _walking stick_. Since, when he did these things nowadays, he usually did them alone, he needed something to open doors for him. Sometimes he just couldn’t find a way to talk himself into wherever he needed to go. Failing a good set of hands for lock picking, and his were not, a magic walking stick would have to do the trick. 

He turned back into the alleyway towards the hidden passage, now open to him, and walked through. 

The passageway led through to some hallway that looked similar to most back hallways in seedy establishments. Conspicuously inconspicuous with two muscled guards standing by a plain, unmarked door trying for unobtrusive, but by the very nature of muscled guards, failing at it. 

They did look pretty surprised to see a little old gnome seemingly pop out of the wall though, which was fun. 

“Uhh,” one said, stepping forward and looking confused. “Are you-- are you lost?”

Without stopping in his trek forward, Scanlan shook his head. “Not at this very moment.”

“Wait, uh, I think you’re a little confused, gramps.” The other one said, even as Scanlan could almost reach out and hit him with his stick. “Did you get lost coming from the loo?” 

This was an aspect of old age Scanlan wasn’t sure was a gift or an insult. No one ever assumed he was simply up to no good anymore. 

“You know there was a time in my life when everyone I met and everyone who even looked twice at me assumed I was a scoundrel as a matter of course. They knew in their hearts that I was trouble waiting to happen,” Scanlan said aloud. “These days people try to _help me_ before anything else. It’s been a very strange journey and I feel a bit put out by it if I’m being completely honest.” 

Before the half-orc by the door could get farther than a confounded “Uhhhm,” Scanlan weaved a very familiar spell, watching as the guard’s gaze fell more deeply into Scanlan’s. 

Scanlan said, “If you’re keen on helping a defenseless little old man, you can help open that door for me.” 

The guard nodded eagerly, and let the door swing open. “Yeah, of course. Sure thing.” 

The other one, cottoning on too many seconds too late, started to reach for his cudgel, but Scanlan sent him to sleep. He added to the half-orc, “Don’t worry about him. He was just tired.” 

In the office, the comically tawdry scene of a respected member of the Council paused in divvying up a pile of gold and platinum with the reigning crime boss of the south end. They each looked a bit spooked by his sudden entrance, but it was only the councilman who stayed looking spooked at the little old gnome who was in the middle of where he shouldn’t be. The councilman, after all, had seen the magistrate meet with Scanlan, had heard the magistrate tax him with finding out who had killed the city’s Lawkeeper. Yet it was clear from the look in his eyes that until this very moment he thought he’d get away with it. 

That was always a fun part.

Scanlan tapped his staff on the ground, closing the door between his new companions and the charmed guard on the other side. 

As the confusion started to bleed into anger, Scanlan smiled. 

He tsked, wagging a finger at the councilman. “Very poor job covering your tracks. You should know better. Many things may escape my notice--I’m only a humble servant of the narrative after all-- but the story will always out when someone wants to find it.”

The crime boss, who had no doubt been on the procurement end of the councilman’s assassination plot, stood up to a modest dwarvish height, still taller than Scanlan. “What the fuck are you talking about? Who the fuck are you?”

“He’s the sorcerer who was commissioned to solve Andresh’... death,” the councilman whispered hurriedly, his hands twitching towards the inside of his robes. 

The dwarf looked strangely contemptuous and amused. He laughed, “This little gnome, older than my great grandad, is the Magistrate’s new inquisitor? He’s this mysterious, powerful sorcerer?” 

Scanlan shrugged and collapsed his staff into a small peg-sized stick, and pocketed it. “I am no sorcerer. I’m only a mere storyteller. I’m here to find the story. That’s all.”

He wasn’t expecting any surprises he couldn’t handle, but just in case--and also to scare the shit out of them--Scanlan invoked his Blessing. It wasn’t as though his eyesight improved, but suddenly he could see more. Including that the councilman wasn’t as gifted a mage as he claimed to be. He could see the guilt circling them.

The councilman hastily conjured some spell, a hint of fire beginning to swirl in his hands, but Scanlan stole the spell in an instantaneous dark flash of energy. Fear paled over the mage’s face. 

“It _is_ you, isn’t it? The bard of Tal’Dorei. The magic eater. I didn’t, I didn’t think you were still alive.” 

“Unfortunately for all of us, nothing has succeeded in killing me yet. And unfortunately for you in particular, I have an obligation to this town. An attachment to it, even. There’s a library, a theater, and a tower in the castle that bears my name. And probably a prissy corpse in the castle mausoleum turning over in his grave that I’m the one defending his legacy right now. But he’d also moan about it if I didn’t, so here we are.” 

He let a moment of the highly personal patter his targets did understand linger for a moment. He’d never been overly fond of making sure people understood his thinking for any given plan of action, but now he felt it was his prerogative as an old man to be deliberately confusing. 

The dwarf frowned. “Look, I don’t care who you think you are. I’ve got men all throughout this building. I’ve got men all over this town! You’re--”

Scanlan cleared his throat and called a spell to him, a bright pink ray of arcane energy forming quickly around his own periphery. He could feel it in the vibrant itch in his hands, the sharpness in his bones, and the secure warmth gracing the middle of his forehead, spreading through his skull. 

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Scanlan said, holding open the spell for the teleportation circle back to the council building, where guards were waiting. “It matters who they were. I made a promise to them. In some other town, you’d probably be fine. You’d thrive, killing who you want to get what you want. But you’re not in any other town. You’re in Whitestone. Maybe even if it hadn’t been the Lawkeeper, you’d have gotten away with your little coup for more power. But she was a De Rolo.”

Scanlan had met her a few times, but hadn’t made much of attempt to see her a lot. She looked like Vex’ahlia. At least that’s what Keyleth had told him. It made him realize he couldn’t place Vex’s features anymore. He didn’t remember, not exactly. He remembered dark hair, a wink, and the things that made Vex, but not the details anymore. 

That made it hard to visit the great grandchildren and the great great grandchildren. 

He let the last measure of the spell fall into balance and the world shifted. The crime boss and the councilman shuddered from the sudden dimensional travel to the public meeting floor, where the council held debate. The captain of the guard, the magistrate, and several of the Pale Guard were standing around them with their swords drawn. 

Scanlan smiled at the councilman, “Vox Machina is still alive. And while Vox Machina is still alive this town will not fall into ruin.” 

Wisely, neither of them put up a fight as the captain of the guard started ordering them to be put in irons. 

The magistrate thanked him for his work, for restoring justice. 

“Frankly, you’re just lucky the Druid was busy. You’d be scraping the justice off the walls,” he said, enjoying watching him pale a little. 

Despite, or maybe because of, Scanlan’s best efforts--it was always hard to tell, he changed his mind a few times over the years-- the touch of Vox Machina was still felt in many parts of Tal’dorei, if a little softened, a little romanticized. Schoolchildren knew them as a force for good. And like so many things that are now the past, lose realism and depth. The rainbows have a way of distracting from the trees split by lightning, but they still work hand in hand. People now saw just the powerful magic and weapons of legend. Not the viscera or the exhaustion or the fear. 

In the end, he supposed, it didn’t really matter if they knew the exact texture of the truth. Scanlan usually wound up at that conclusion. If over four hundred years of storytelling taught him anything, everyone needed to experience their own texture, their own truth to understand anybody else’s anyway. 

Scanlan took the wooden peg out of his pocket and shook it back into a walking staff. It was late now, but maybe he had time to see the theater. After all, he was still breathing. 

He ought to enjoy it while he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~*~
> 
>  
> 
> i hoped you liked it. i'm jabletown.tumblr.com. let me know how it goes. <3


	2. 73

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new vocabulary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now a giant flash backward from age 451, to look at the language of love a little bit in the Trickfoot-Shorthalt household. 
> 
>  
> 
> ~*~

Pike set the lantern on the table near her side of the bed. She took hold of the corner of the blanket and pulled it up quick, letting the cold air underneath. Scanlan shivered and turned toward her. She scrambled underneath, squirming up next to him, which was a very adequate consolation for the cold. 

“What?” she said, looking at him curiously as they pulled the blanket up to their chins. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“No, your face.” 

“Hmm,” Scanlan considered. “Yeah. I still have one of those.” 

Pike chuckled and wriggled up closer to him, touching his cheek with cold fingertips. “Why are you smiling?” 

Scanlan grinned, but differently because he hadn’t even realized he was smiling and he loved a great set up. He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling them from nearly brushing to chest-to-chest and nose-to-nose. He nuzzled into her neck for a moment and hummed, “Why wouldn’t I smile at the sight of the most beautiful gnome in the world climbing into the bed?” 

Pike laughed and he could feel it vibrating against his skin. He failed to bite back a moan. 

“That was a line.”

“It was heartfelt.” 

“It was a line. And it was good, but not necessary. I’m already in your bed.” 

“Actually, I’m in yours. A subtle difference, but one that keeps me on my toes. Gotta keep you rolling in lines.” He stopped to kiss her neck. “And lyrics.” And her cheek. “And love letters.” 

They kissed, but when Pike pulled away there was something strange bringing down Pike’s smile. 

“What?” he said. 

“Nothing,” she said, smiling more, but she wasn’t as good at faking things as he was. And she tensed for a moment. 

He’d gotten a lot better, he thought, in recent years at understanding people’s changes in moods. Well, at least Pike’s. And mostly because he could touch her all the time now and it was harder to hide feelings when you were being touched. 

“What’s wrong? Bad breath? Is there kale in my teeth?” 

Then she made that flat smile that indicated things were about to get real. Scanlan braced himself. 

“It’s just that… It’s not just _my_ bed.” 

Scanlan tried puzzling that out, but felt lost in the dark. “Um, yeah. Okay.” 

“It’s your bed too.” 

“Yeah,” he said cautiously. “I sleep here. I know.” 

Then she frowned, in a sort of sad, polite way, which was the real indication of impending badness. And then she pulled back a little from their snuggle. 

“What?” He said.

“You live here, Scanlan.” 

“Yeah, I’m aware of that too.” 

“But you’re doing this thing,” Pike said, pausing to sort of growl adorably in frustration. “I don’t know how to explain it but you do it all the time. I thought it would just go away over time, but it’s been over a year and you still do it.” 

Fully afraid and worried about too many things to list--Pike coming to her senses and dropping him, behavior of his being read so easily-- Scanlan pulled back too. She pulled back more too and before he knew it they were sitting up in bed and now it was a full on Conversation when they should have been going to sleep or finding better ways to not sleep. 

He ran his hand through his hair, trying not to tug. “What, what do you mean?” 

“The things you say about this house--our house!”

“I didn’t say anything about the house.”

Pike’s eyes went big. “There! You just did it again! _The_ house, _the_ bed, _the_.” 

Scanlan put his hands up in surrender. “I had no idea you were such an opponent of definite articles.”

“Scanlan,” Pike reprimanded. “You did it yesterday too. When you and Grog left the temple. You said you were going to see me later at _the_ house. Not ‘home,’ not ‘our house,’ not even just ‘see you later.’ _The_ house. And it made me realize you do it all the time without even thinking.” 

Really starting to feel lost this time, Scanlan tried to surrender more. “Pike, I… I don’t really know what you’re getting at.” 

“Your words, Scanlan! You!--you’re the one who--I didn’t much pay attention to words before you, but since even early on when we met I started to think about words more, and how people use them. How you use them. And it’s been over a year since you moved in here, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call it home. _Your words_ , Scanlan, keep telling me you don’t think of this house as your home.” 

It kind of felt like a punch and worse, one he had somehow managed to deal to himself. He opened his mouth, but mostly stumbled over sounds. It felt cold in a way he was sure wasn’t from the chill winter night penetrating the house. 

_The_ house.

He tried to think of any times he might’ve called the little red brick house of Pike’s youth “home,” but he knew it was a futile search. 

After a long silence of Pike worrying her lip and Scanlan worrying something he hadn’t even noticed he’d done wrong was going to ruin everything, Pike added, a little softer, “I want you to think of this as your bed too.”

“Pike, I-- I’m sorry. I didn’t really think about it.” 

Pike shook her head, and looked down to her hands, where she was already picking at the side of her thumb. “I don’t want you to be sorry. If you don’t feel it, you don’t feel it. I can’t force you to. I just, I just had hoped I’d done enough to make you feel comfortable here.” 

A very unpleasant surge of energy and feeling filled his chest. Two minutes ago he had been snuggling and now the echoic memory of everything _slipping away_ was started to surround him. 

“No, no, gods, Pike. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m doing it wrong.” 

She huffed. “You always say that. It’s not always true.” 

“No, it is. Obviously I’m doing it wrong. It’s not this house and it’s certainly not you. I just don’t know how to have a home.” 

Scanlan was mildly stunned in the resulting silence that what he’d said was true. His relationship with honesty, even now, was pretty distant. Even though these days he tried to engage with it more, he knew the truth was an entity outside himself, not within. 

He could count the times in his life he’d blurted it out thoughtlessly on one hand. 

Pike must have noticed because she stopped picking at her thumb and looked at him cautiously. 

“I don’t want to disappoint you. I don’t want to push you away. But I just… don’t. I haven’t had a home in,” he said, stopping to reel his breath back in from its heaviness. “A long time. I will be… better about it. I promise.” 

She still looked cautious. “You don’t disappoint me, Scanlan. I know you’ve travelled a lot more than the rest of us. But I mean… you’re not even talking about Greyskull are you?” 

Something in him relaxed a little. He hadn’t expected her to understand, but he should’ve known better. He shrugged, trying to feel like it wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t, in some ways. It was a building; they come and go. But also, Greyskull had almost felt like a _home_ for a while there. Then dragons came and it was like no one even thought about going back. 

“I was… I liked it there.” He’d called Greyskull Keep home a handful of times out loud. It felt stupidly daring, even though no one could know why, and he didn’t even really know why at the time. He cleared his throat a little. “But that got taken away too.” 

He could see her eyes zero in on him, even in the dark. But she stayed quiet for a long moment, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. 

Then finally she soothed a hand over his. “You don’t need to tell me right now, but I want you to know you _can_ tell me about what your life was like before. Your home, your town, your mother. Any time.” 

His heart picked up faster. He tried to say something to step back from the offer, but he couldn’t get out any words. She caught that too. 

“You don’t need to tell me anything until you want to tell me. It’s-- Home is important. This house has always been my home, and I love it. It’s why I want you to feel at home here, because I love you too. But I get that might take a while. I just-- I just don’t want you to feel like you don’t belong here. You don’t need to tell me things about your past if it’s going to hurt you, but I don’t want you to stay silent over things that will hurt you just because you think it might upset me.” After a beat she added, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spring this on you, I just got a little worked up. But you see where I’m coming from, right?” 

There was a reeling shock that took a second to fade. 

Scanlan was in awe of Pike. He always had been, but he was still surprised by how easily she could shatter his entire conception of her and form it into something better each time. Every time he got to feeling like she was too perfect or too familiar, she’d do or say something that revealed more. Each new part was filled with a kind of love and passion that was totally new to him, totally captivating. 

He nodded faintly, feeling weak from every layer of skin down to his lungs. “You’re the only one who can turn me speechless.” 

A confused little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. 

Scanlan took her hand because it was always how he felt bravest. He edged closer to her again, holding their hands against his chest. “I feel… welcome here with you. With you and Grog. I feel more at ease here than anywhere with anyone in the last-- in the last forty-four years. It’s been…” 

“A long time.” 

Very nearly all of Pike’s life. Longer than anyone else in Vox Machina has been alive.

He tried to clear some of the creaking from his voice. “When you live without something for a long time, it’s hard to know how to react to it again. I want to… I promise to learn again.I promise to always learn everything you give me. But I heard everything you said and it, it was… more than words,” was all he could spit out. 

He was bereft of language. It felt awkward and inadequate, every word tumbling through his head. Without thinking he held his other hand around hers, took it and pressed it against spot on his ribs where his heart beat. 

Her fingers pressed against his ribs and her other arm wrapped around him, pulling him against her, pulling them down into the bed again, kissing until he started to forget his surroundings. For a second the cold in the room and the wind outside and the walls faded into a warm pink sparkling haze. It felt like magic or a perfect bar of music or a finished story. 

He stopped for a moment. Their hands were still reaching for more of each other, but he felt like something momentous should be said. Instead he just looked at her. 

Pike didn’t say anything out loud, but maybe her eyes did. She smiled. And he should have known better, really. She understood what he meant, and she understood most things better than he did. It was a different kind of language she was sharing with him.

He wanted more than anything to learn it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~*~
> 
>  
> 
> aww a happy one. any particular post vm ideas you want to see? i've got a set list of some events i want to do but i'm open to accepting a few good ideas. 
> 
> let me know how it goes. <3


	3. 434

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A soft truth in a hard loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> serious talk about grieving and can be interpreted as suicidal ideation probably. so head's up for that. 
> 
> this was a very very long chapter that took a long time because it was very emotional. i hope it all makes sense. i cried a lot. see the tags about major character death. 
> 
>  
> 
> ~*~

~*~

 

There was always a little twinge of doubt after teleporting anywhere, even when he knew it was the right place to go. He hated being stuck with only one option, even one that seemed right. After teleporting, there was always a split second of doubt. He always wondered what other chances he was letting slip past with the one he was taking. 

He’d developed a reflexive habit--and realistically, it was a Vox Machina thing as well-- to teleport always later in the day if possible. 

So he arrived at Zephyra right before the sunset. 

He pulled his coat up around him. It was fall and there was a chill in the air. It was why he wasn’t waiting any longer, even though he didn’t want to come. 

He didn’t really want to be here, but it was the right thing to do. 

On his trek to Keyleth’s, he tried to avoid any attention but people clearly noticed him. Zephyra wasn’t so large a traveller could be mistaken for a resident. Also travellers were carried down on their gliders, typically, as the teleportation sigil for the public was on the other side of a gorge for safety. Scanlan tended to avoid that even when he was younger and wasn’t about to be carried on a flying kite at this age. But he would’ve put money on the looks he was getting were recognition. 

It had been over two years since his last visit, but anyone who’d grown up in Zephyra for the last 300 years had seen him, heard his stories during sporadically attended equinox and solstice festivals, and perhaps had seen him and Pike at council meetings. Some had seen help protect Zephyra when Keyleth called on them in times of trouble. 

Unlike in Whitestone, which had grown so much and changes so quickly as human cities were wont to do, the village of Zephyra had stayed fairly small and contained. Not all druids flocked to the Ashari fortresses, or even agree with the Ashari way of life. And sometimes folks who came to Zephyra only pilgrimaged there, before returning to their families or finding some other home in nature. 

Still, in the village of Zephyra, they had never really been Pike Trickfoot, Sarenrae’s most beloved disciple on the material plane, and Scanlan Shorthalt, bard of legend. They had been Headmaster Keyleth’s old travelling companions. They had been that little old gnomish couple. They had been The Trickfoots. They were known. They were a presence, together. 

Now, after this longer than usual absence, some people still knew him. Some older children pointed and watched him keenly, probably remembering years past where he told tales with magic and song to gaggles of children. Adults whispered, but didn’t approach and stopped their children from running to him. 

As he walked to Keyleth’s yurt, one hand gripping a walking staff and the other empty, he felt keenly aware with every familiar step there was a still, still, still unfamiliar unbalance. He was alone here for the first time. 

He arrived at Keyleth’s hut thoughtlessly, his white-knuckled grip on his walking staff wringing through his wrist. He could see the heavy winter curtains were strung up in her door and the smoke rising from the top, but it took him a moment to know what to do. Finally, he wrapped his staff on the doorframe. After all, it wasn’t like he could travel anywhere else until his rest. 

“Come in.” 

Scanlan took a deep breath and parted the layered curtains. 

Keyleth was sitting on cushions with two other people in a semicircle around the hearthfire in the middle of her yurt. They were a man and a woman that both appeared to be human, sitting close together. The woman had dark skin and delicately graying, dark braided hair--beautiful, Scanlan could never not notice a particularly beautiful woman-- and she was eyeing his intrusion guardedly. While the man looked a bit wide-eyed, like he recognized Scanlan, which was definitely possible. They had some papers and cups of tea around them, clearing pausing during some kind of discussion. 

But then Keyleth echoed his name, and her voice was soft but it tore through him. 

Keyleth had changed very little over the years, so far as Scanlan could tell. Yet when he thought back to the Keyleth he had known over three hundred years ago, the difference in age seemed clear. She may as well have turned back to the girl she was the first day they met. 

But for a second there when she saw him in the doorway it looked like hundreds of years of age disappearing in a flash. 

Without really rising to her full height, Keyleth stood from her cushion and fell back down to her knees to throw her arms around Scanlan. Her hair kind of flew around his face and she was hugging too hard and his stick was trapped awkwardly between them and even on her knees she was still taller than Scanlan. 

It was strange. He and Keyleth weren’t huggers. He vaguely remembered the last time they hugged had been at his granddaughter’s wedding. Definitely not at the funeral. 

After Keyleth let go, also after far too long, he could hardly bare to look at her face. There were too many emotions and she still looked too young. He had to fight the urge to turn around and walk and keep walking. 

“It’s been a while,” he said, hearing the age rasp in his voice. 

She nodded slowly, then the open joy and worry on her face solidified a little. She looked back at the other people in the room. “I don’t know if you’ve ever met before. This is Fraia and Lynden Brandle; they’ve studied diseases and curses of the soil and forest across Tal’dorei and moved here a few years ago. We’re discussing what to do about the root rot on the south edge of the forest. Lynden, actually, is from Westruun. Fraia, Lynden, this is Scanlan Shorthalt, an old friend of mine.” 

At his name the woman relaxed slightly with recognition, but the man appeared to already know of him. He looked a bit excited about it, also looking childlike in glee which was strange to see on a large man with a fairly hefty salt and pepper beard. He looked a bit older than Keyleth, even though he was probably hundreds of years younger. He leaned forward in an awkward crouch, knee undecided on kneeling or standing, to shake Scanlan’s hand. 

“It’s an honor, Master Bard, sir. I’ve sort of met you. Well, not properly met you. I grew up in Westruun. I listened to your tales a few times at the Winter’s Crest festivals when I was a lad. And went to some of the feast days, of course.” He grinned happily and said to the women, “The temple of Sarenrae sponsored some of the feast days, of course. And the Cobalt Reserve. And Mr. Trickfoot would be there at times to tell tales to the children of Westruun. And Mrs. Trickfoot would always judge in the garden competitions in the summer.”

He turned back to Scanlan with the frenzied look of someone who was saying more than he wanted to say, and shook Scanlan’s hand again. “I spent some time studying at the Cobalt Reserve. I never studied particularly your brand of magic so I never saw any of your demonstrations, but my mother read me and my siblings your book of fables when we were children. It was a family favorite. It’s so good to finally meet you, sir.”

The man was still shaking his hand so Scanlan eased into venerated grandfatherly author, which was easy since that’s what the man clearly saw him as. Scanlan shifted his walking stick to the crook of his arm, and covered the top of Lynden’s hand. Lynden’s whole body froze.

“I was sure I’d seen you somewhere. It’s good to meet you as well, Lynden.” 

Lynden grinned goofier than before and Scanlan casually, forcibly removed his hands. 

Scanlan looked back at Keyleth, “I ought to have sent you a message before I arrived. I’m interrupting.” 

“It’s okay,” Lynden said at the same time as Keyleth. Lynden added, “We can go. You probably have important things to discuss with the Headmistress.” 

At this point, the other woman stood up, and more to her husband said, “Of course. The outbreak of root rot despoiling a third of the southern forest is no big deal.” 

He blushed a bit, but it was Keyleth who spoke up. “We can continue tomorrow. It’s late anyway.” 

Lynden was not as good looking as his wife, but it was obvious she was fond of him. As they bid their goodbyes and walked out of Keyleth’s yurt, Scanlan could overhear the man try but fail to say in a sotto voice, “I can’t believe we met the bard of Tal’Dorei _in person_.” Fraia laughed a specific kind of laugh. It was melodious and kind and couldn’t be mistaken for any other. Scanlan had heard it thousands of times from Pike.

Scanlan looked around Keyleth’s yurt. It didn’t look like it had changed at all, but it had only been a few years since he’d visited Zephyra. Keyleth herself was approaching her fourth century and changing small things all the time at that age just got to feel futile. 

The quiet fastly turned oppressive, but he couldn’t leave. He felt like to ought to be speaking much more easily, given it was Keyleth. It was only the two of them, but that was the problem wasn’t it. It was only the two of them now. 

And he couldn’t leave. 

Keyleth cleared her throat. “Did you really recognize him? From your performances when he was little?” 

“Oh. Of course not. But it makes the kids feel better.” 

Keyleth rolled her eyes, but she smiled again. “Those were two accomplished druids in their fifties, not exactly kids. Also I never got treated like that when Lynden met me.” 

Scanlan shrugged. His fifties had been a haze of partying and getting out of towns quick when people started wanting things from him. Pretty much a kid. Humans had such short lives he wondered how any of them ever had time to love everyone they needed to and sort out their wrongs and the mistakes of their youth. Then again, they had less time to dwell on all of that, so it probably worked out better in the end. 

“They probably only have the barest idea of Vox Machina. The kids only remember the fables.” 

When June had been born, Scanlan set off on his third book, The Collected Fables of Tal’Dorei. He’d thought the title was funny because all the stories within had been made up by him, as stories for his children and amended yarns he’d spun over his years of adventuring. Three hundred years later, it was a common book to find in most libraries and nursery rooms. And the fictionalized accounts he’d given about magical and mundane ordeals had sometimes been adopted by real people and places. 

Scanlan had once met a young bard that claimed to be a descendant of a character he’d based on himself. 

A story about talking bears in the Bramblewood forest had become the source of several paid guided treks through the woods to “find,” or to find, the den of the criminal honey stealing bears. 

“I still forget sometimes that you’re not just our bard,” Keyleth said quietly. 

They both looked away. There really was no _our_ anymore. 

“It’s good to see you,” Scanlan said, the burning need to speak overcoming the amount of things he didn’t actually want to say. 

“You’re looking well,” she said. Her voice was hopeful, but her eyes turned concerned the more they stood there. “Has something… Is there a particular thing that needs my attention?”

“I thought it would be good to check in with you. It’s been a while.” He’d said that already. “I should have messaged you.” And that too. 

The words people didn’t say were important. 

From very early on Scanlan, from before he could remember, he’d always had a knack for picking the right words. The most useful or endearing or advantageous or provocative words. It’s only half a talent, though, if don’t also know what not to say. They are sister skills. He learned that too, as a young man, a little better than the first part. The words you don’t say are harder to master; they are more voluminous and unwieldy and deep. They are a difficult medium to work in, because you don’t always know yourself how many you’re using by filling the space around them.

Sometimes the words he didn’t say took up too much space for even him to bear. 

She looked at him suspiciously. “What happened? You haven’t come to Zephyra since before the funeral.” 

Keyleth wasn’t the type, however, to say things by not saying them. 

“Nothing has happened,” he lied by technicality. Nothing _new_ happened, nothing _new_ had gone wrong. 

He knew a lot of words. He knew a lot of ways around words. But Keyleth had known him for over three hundred and fifty years. It was hard to imagine her unable to see what he was doing whether he said it or didn’t say it. 

“I just need to… I wanted to know how Vasselheim is doing.” 

Keyleth frowned. “Vasselheim?” 

“The new Ioun temple is doing alright? Haven’t heard anything about that oblivion cult again have you?” 

Keyleth was now visibly eying him, inspecting the structure of his lies. “No, not in at least forty years.” 

“Oh good.” He was almost disappointed. A resurgence of worship of the Chained Oblivion might have been helpful. But it had been a while since a cultist had plotted his death. 

“Scanlan,” Keyleth said flatly. “What’s really going on?” 

“Nothing, I want…” Scanlan sighed. All the things to _not say_ drifted away, leaving only what he felt really needed to be there. “I just want you to… I just want you to know that June went back home to Emon. Ivy and Ebrin are expecting again. Opal is still doing research at the Arcana Pansophical in Ank’harel. And there are things at Reserve--” 

“No. No, what is this?” Keyleth said, shaking her head. “Why are you telling me what your great grandchildren are doing?” 

“I don’t think anything the Reserve has is too dangerous, but I started keeping records in the last century. Those are at the house. You could probably give any loose ends to the Curator of the Ioun Temple if something seems off.” 

“Why are you telling me about people to notify, Scanlan? What would I have to tell them?” 

“Keyleth,” he said, feeling the weight of every sound on his tongue. 

“No!” Keyleth walked back, further away from the center hearthfire of her yurt. Her fists were clenched at her sides, and he could only see the dark of her eyes, wide and furious like a cornered cat. “No! You can’t leave me! Pike just left me! You can’t give up!” 

“I’m not giving up, I-- I could be dying, you know.” 

“You’re not dying! You’re stupidly healthy! You’ve never been sick and you survive everything!” 

She was pissed, but still she probably had a sense of how wounding that was. He _did_ survive everything. That was the problem. There’d been a part of him expecting to feel death grasp him since he was all of twenty--not the first time he saw his mother cry over their lack of funds, but the first time she accepted to coppers he earned singing on the corner instead of telling him to keep it for himself. He’d heard the flap of her raven wings right next to his ear dozens, maybe hundreds of times since then. He was always surprised when he opened his eyes to still find himself alive. 

And while he might have been flanked on either side, just out of sight but always near, by both the Raven Queen and Sarenrae, in front of him these many years had been the Knowing Mistress. He’d worked hard to live up to her Blessing, well after Vox Machina defeated Vecna. He reasoned he owed to her since she trusted him. And he told his tales and aided the rebuilding of her temples when he could and searched for lost books for the Cobalt Reserve, another of her gifts started to come to him. He’d started Seeing long ago, in his dreams mostly. Glimpses of enemies to Ioun and glimpses of his own paths, and the paths of those around him. And he’d live things before they happened as he lived his long life.

He’d been surviving for 434 years now and it was too much. 

Not knowing much about his ancestry but that his mother claimed both she and his father were forest gnomes, Scanlan might survive for another two hundred years more. Maybe three hundred if he was unlucky. Pike’s family was mixed deep gnome and forest gnome. She and their children, their children’s children, didn’t seem to live as long. 

He’d been to the funerals of all of his friends but the archdruid standing in front of him. He’d buried all but one of his children, four grandchildren, and two great grandchildren. Now he lived in a house he shared with his wife for the last 360 years, bereft of her. 

His body might survive a lot more, but he didn’t think the rest of him could. 

It made him sick. He knew part of the reason he’d survived so much was because he was good at being selfish. There were grandkids and great grandkids and their children. There was his beloved Juniper, who looked nearly as old as him now. There were descendents and friends and followers of Sarenrae and Ioun across the great cities of Tal’dorei who gave him love and attention. 

There was Keyleth. 

There were still so many people. But it meant nothing. 

He still wanted out. 

“I don’t want to survive everything anymore. Keyleth… I’m tired.”

She kept her distance away from the fire. She didn’t move, but she seemed to shake in place very minutely. For a second the light from the fire dimmed even further. The darkness flashed, in the same manner as light, but chilling the room. 

“That’s not… So, so what? Are you going to kill yourself? Is this what you’re telling me? You’re telling you’re going to kill yourself so I can take care of your grandchildren and look after your affairs? You’re telling me because you were too scared to tell your daughter? Is this what I am to you? Some kind of immortal lawyer to take care of your responsibilities?” 

Her voice was thick with contempt as she glared at him with a shield of dim light over her face. He hadn’t expected her to react so strongly. He didn’t think she’d be happy, but this was not what he imagined. He felt off kilter and gripped his walking stick more tightly.

“Keyleth, I don’t… You don’t _have_ to do any of those things. It’s only what we’ve done for everyone else.” 

“I’m not ready to do it again!” Something tore audibly through her voice and she started crying, loudly and wetly. She started to slide to the floor, and tore her antler circlet from her head. The fire in the brazier blazed higher for a moment. 

Scanlan was frozen. This was nothing at all what he’d expected when he thought about this discussion. His throat felt tight and empty. He couldn’t make a sound. 

Keyleth wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “It’s only been two years. I can’t-- I can’t do it again. Not now. Not yet.” 

“Two years, ten months,” Scanlan said quietly. “And eleven days. One thousand and forty-one days altogether. One thousand and forty dawns without her.” 

Tears fell down Keyleth’s face, but she looked directly into his eyes without breaking away. “Oh, that’s different is it? That’s enough days to make it fine for you to leave too? Is that supposed to mean I should be fine with you dying too? You don’t say one word to me since the funeral and then tell me you’re leaving me too and I’m supposed to just deal with it?” 

Scanlan sighed and walked towards her past the fire. When he got closer, she looked less fierce and ready to fight. He sat across from her. He hadn’t been this close to her since the funeral. Close up she looked both old and young. Fine elvish lines mixed in with freckles scattered faintly across her nose, and light white hairs hidden amongst the red at her temples. When he sat down she looked at him not totally dissimilar to the way hundreds of children had whenever he started a story. 

“The number of days don’t mean anything, really. It’s just… I’ve woken up every one of those mornings looking for Pike. Every new day starts with the worst day of my life when I remember the woman I was married to for three hundred and sixty years is gone. I don’t… I don’t know how long I can keep going waking up without her. I’ve told enough stories. The rest of them can be told without me.”

“I… I know it’s hard, Scanlan. I know it’s painful. We have this in common. Living through this… it’s our destiny. You can’t just… You can’t expect me to be fine with this.”

“You don’t have to be fine with anything. Honestly, I didn’t think you would care this much.” 

She frowned violently. “You didn’t think I would care about you telling me you’re going to kill yourself?” 

“I’m not going to kill myself. So let’s leave that alone, shall we?” He said, ignoring the other part. 

He loved Keyleth, and he’d become closer to her over the years out of necessity, but they weren’t similar. They weren’t naturally prone to agree on much and it showed in their relationship. They didn’t confide all the small details of their life with each other, like they both had with Pike, or once had with Vex long ago. Scanlan _still_ thought Keyleth was prone to moral absolutism, and he was sure she still considered him too self absorbed to be a truly good person. 

When he planned what to say to her about this, he imagined she would simply accept it, maybe angrily, maybe sadly. But in his imagination there was no back talk or accusations. 

Certainly not open weeping. He was a little frightened by it. And probably worse, a little flattered. 

Keyleth snorted and wiped her nose. “You started telling me your last wishes. You’re intent on dying. I feel like whether you do it yourself or not, the difference is nil. How are you going to do it?” 

His jaw tightened. Keyleth would probably like his idea even less than suicide. But he was in it now. “Well… I plan on going to the Island of Renewal.” 

Keyleth frowned more reservedly. “Do you… Are you sure that’s where you’re going to go? I mean, the Knowing Mistress has a claim on you. Where do you go when you’re faithful to more than one god?” 

“No, I mean I’m _going_ there. I’m going to plane shift there.” 

Keyleth’s eyes widened. “You can’t just go to where the gods live, Scanlan.” 

“Why not? We’ve been there before. I’ve got to find a tuning fork to get beyond the Divine Gate, I know. But we’ve also done that before. I can do it again.” 

“But you… I don’t think you can be alive there. And even if you can, Pike is…” 

“She’s there.” 

“I’m sure she is with Sarenrae. But how? As a spirit? A companion of Sarenrae? A pearl of sand on the Island? You don’t know if you’ll even be able to see her or communicate with her. Would Sarenrae even see you as one of her faithful?” 

“I don’t know. I’ve got to try.” 

Keyleth sighed and rubbed her temples, flattening the faint crow’s feet by her eyes. 

There was a long silence Scanlan had no desire to be in, but had no other words to fill it with. The last few years of his life had been dominated by that kind of silence. The loud yawning silences of no laughter, no music. Only the rattling breaths in his own chest. 

“Scanlan.” She looked at him curiously, her voice now dry and little thin. “Why did you tell me this? Why did you come here?”

“What do you mean?” 

“You didn’t… You sound like your mind is made up. You didn’t need to tell me ahead of time. I mean, you really didn’t think I would be angry? Upset?”

“Things have to be taken care of,” he said, but the words felt weak. “We’ve been through this so many times and it’s always awful. I thought I would at least owe you a warning. You deserve that.”

She nodded, glassiness returning to her eyes for a second. “You thought you were being nice.” 

“Would you rather find out by surprise?”

She laughed dryly without mirth. “You haven’t come to see me for three years. You’ve avoided and put off every time I tried to see you. I thought, you know, you’re you. You just needed time to be alone. Or, I don’t know, I thought maybe you just didn’t want to see _me_. I thought you were resentful that I was the one you were left with.” 

“I don’t resent you. I respect you. More than anyone else alive. You’re so strong and capable. That’s why I’m telling you.” 

“You know, I’ve got to hand it to you, Scanlan. You’re the only person I’ve known for hundreds of years whose managed to still be surprising.” 

He tried to find words that she might find consoling, but she cut him off. “What if I’m not capable of handling this? What if I can’t endure another death either? What if I can’t take another person leaving me?”

“It’s not like… It’s only me. You’ve always known it would be like this. If you can adjust to losing Pike, this will be nothing.” 

Keyleth’s face darkened, turning angry and sharp. He’d said something _wrong_ again and felt the immediate embarrassment and unsteadiness that came from saying the wrong thing, even if he felt he was right about it. Given it was Keyleth he was talking to, and her thoughts were so different from his, there was probably no chance he was going to have this talk without saying the wrong thing. 

Even when he’d been imagining it before he’d found the wrong words. 

“What do you--How do you know anything about about how I’ve adjusted to Pike’s death?” She spat the words back at him. “You haven’t seen me since the day of the funeral! You don’t know anything about what I’ve been going through! You haven’t bothered to ask me once in any letter. And I get it. I can’t begin to understand what you’re going through losing someone you’ve been married to for hundreds of years. Are you really that, that fucking conceited or stupid that you think that I’m _over_ Pike’s death? That I’m over anyone’s death instead of just making it a part of me. Do you honestly think I’ve, what, moved past grieving? That I don’t have that anymore? That I’ve moved that far away from being human?”

The wind was stronger than it had been a few moments ago. He could hear it, could feel the gust seeping from the entrance and the roof. 

Slightly ashamed of it, and a lot of other things, Scanlan gave into his first impulse to break the tension. Even though it wasn’t a good moment for it and even though Keyleth would probably hate it. 

“That ‘stupid’ comment’s been building for a lot more than the last three years, huh?” 

He couldn’t not be himself. 

The intensity in her eyes took a slow second to melt, but it did. The fire seemed to breathe again and the wind became inaudible. She laughed--it wasn’t happy by any measure but she laughed. There was still a dogged anger in the lines around her mouth still, so Scanlan reached across to hold her hand. 

She almost pulled away but relented. She watched him warily as he glanced into the fire, thinking of what to say. 

“You know I don’t think I’ve paid attention to much of what anything’s felt like for a while now.” He patted his other hand on top of hers. Her hand was rough. All her knuckles and nails looking more aged than the rest of her. Her fingers were always stained with dirt and ceremonial dye and magical components, cracked from mud and blood and water. It felt like the first skin he’d touched in so long. “Or maybe I wasn’t feeling it at all… I shouldn’t have ignored you.” 

She was still tensed, but she shrugged. “There’s a strong case to be made that I let you ignore me. I could’ve barged into your garden any day I wanted. I didn’t want to… I was going to say I didn’t want to trouble you anymore than you were, which is true. But I also didn’t want to… I didn’t want to see your pain either. I didn’t think I could identify with what you went through. Or that I wouldn’t be, er, good, I guess, about handling what little I have left. It just safer to avoid, I guess.”

“Preachin’ to the choir,” Scanlan said, knowing the understatement. 

A corner of her mouth almost moved. There was… avoidance from both of us, I guess.” 

“You tried harder. An incredibly human thing, to try.” 

She made that flat, almost disapproving smile his daughters and granddaughters gave him when he said something blatantly pandering and didn’t like to admit they liked. “You don’t need to reassure me I’m still human.” 

He smiled, but didn’t say anything about how they both know that was kind of bullshit. 

Keyleth had not physically aged like he and Pike had. Keyleth looked like maybe a human woman of 35. For a long time it had felt like she was immune to aging. But that wasn’t true. It only showed more in her behavior, in her moods. In the time she became less and less sympathetic to other people’s short life spans, the cruelty they could cause because of it, and the grief it caused her. 

She’d talk about it, normally to Pike, as her mind becoming more and more attuned with the earth, and less with the person. Her fading away from humanity that eventually overtook all archdruids. 

It wasn’t something Scanlan at all understood until he was living in the void Pike left. 

He was going to let go of her hand, but she wouldn’t let him. She squeezed it harder. He and Keyleth weren’t touchy, never had been, so he knew what she was doing. Her eyes were desperate. His chest flooded with guilt; his throat locking up before her words even hit him. 

“Please,” she said, barely a whisper. “Don’t. You’re all I have left.” 

With that, things rotated into place, like her words and his feelings about them were inevitable. He may have heard them before. Maybe this was what he was wanting. A decision of some kind maybe. He hadn’t felt like he really wanted either Keyleth’s blessing to shuffle off this mortal coil, or her to beg him to stay. 

He’d expected more of the former. 

But that’s probably because he was only thinking of himself. As much as he knew he’s gotten people to love him over the years, he also knew he was disposable when it really comes down to it. A bit of him may have been looking for Keyleth’s permission to leave the world, as she would be more likely to give it than his daughter or his grandchildren. 

Keyleth’s anger and reticence to let him go was… unexpectedly nice, but was more about what she needed to survive than needing the man known as Scanlan Shorthalt. 

They were the last remaining members of their first family. There was no other Vox Machina but them, and no other who lived anymore than knew what made either of them the way they were. 

She needed to remain the person she was. She needed a friend. 

It didn’t mean his passionate desire to get back to his Pike would just slip away. 

“I’ll make you a proposal, Keyleth.” 

Keyleth’s breath was louder than the fire. She squeezed his hand tighter. 

“Help me try to send a message beyond the planes again.” 

She sighed. “We tried that before. It’s not… No one in history has ever done it.” 

It was a project inspired by Vax’s death. Probably the first serious project they worked on together. Virtually every written piece of knowledge on the subject of contacting any souls or beings across the planes, especially beyond the Divine Gate, implied it was an impossible piece of magic. After their first failed try, they had really only entertained the idea academically. Scanlan had thought more than once he could enchant a planar tuning fork to travel given enough time, and it would probably be easier than simply trying to communicate beyond planes. 

“Help me send a message, or see beyond the planes. Or create or find a tuning fork to go--”

“Scanlan,” she warned. 

“To visit. Temporarily. Help me talk to Sarenrae. Or even Ioun. To find out about Pike, where she is and where I might go. Just to know. So I can be ready. Help me with this and I will stay here as long as I can. With you.” 

“Scanlan,” she repeated but more sadly. 

“I refuse to believe it’s impossible. Not just because I want it. We’ve done the simpler versions of those spells countless times. It’s the same thing.” 

“Just to the heavens.”

“Exactly!” He looked her in the eye, sustained and tried to show how much of himself he was giving to her. “I can wait. I can wait to die however fate intends if I can know if I get to see her or not when I do. I need _something_ to keep me going. Just as you do.” 

Her eyes softened and she nodded. “Okay. Okay, I’ll help you.” 

He nodded. 

That was enough for her to finally let go of his hand. 

And as they settled down for the night, beginning to talk of other things, beginning to make plans for the next day and renewing long abandoned research, Scanlan thought he just might actually have accidentally told her the truth. 

 

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~*~
> 
>  
> 
> so that was sad! i love love 400 years on keyleth and scanlan. i didn't get around to any, you know, humor, but not all of their relationship is like this. i like to imagine that even after 300 years of knowing each other, and understanding each other better, scanlan still doesn't remember shit like keyleth can't cast invisibility or what her staff does. 
> 
> i hope you liked it? i mean you can't actually like this chapter. but i hope it made sense. will follow up with something more light hearted. probably.


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